The Campanile

The Campanile is an old-fashioned apartment building located on a leafy stretch of Avenue Road just north of St. Clair Avenue. For those of you not familiar with the city of Toronto this stretch of real estate classifies as a “good address” even though The Campanile was an older building with dated architecture and design.

The Campanile was built in the late 1940s when Canada was experiencing a tremendous boom in economic growth and construction. The architect determined to create a building that would encourage well-to-do Torontonians to give up their comfortable homes and move to apartments that offered size and location.

Constructed of Ontario limestone with dark brown brick inserts and carved mullions, The Campanile stretched fifteen storeys upward on a narrow footprint of land. The building was on a narrow lot so the builder compensated for the lack of real estate by building up instead of out.

The top 5 floors each contained one apartment per floor, with enough space to comfortably house a family and domestic help. The first ten floors were split into either four or two apartments. These floors shared common elevator vestibules that were tastefully decorated with a rather quaint old-fashioned air. Threadbare Persian carpets and reproductions of old masters, paneled walls and discreet lighting. Fresh flowers were found in the lobby and the flowerbeds near the front door were seasonally updated with fresh offerings.

Apartment house living did not become fashionable in the city until the 1970s and 80s with the construction of new condominium buildings. For decades The Campanile endured as a solid reminder of a different time. The residents—who tended to move in and stay put until they died—enjoyed the quiet amenities of the building along with its vaunted address and service. Cars were brought up to the driveway when requested, and the door staff delivered packages. The faint ring of the house phone announced visitors; the larger apartments had service entrances, back doors, and rooms set aside for domestic staff. Over the years most of the “staff rooms” had been pressed into service for use as a den, small office or even done away with altogether with the destruction of a wall, turning two smaller rooms into one.

The Secretary had purchased the building at almost bargain-basement prices in the 1960s and hung onto her investment as property values skyrocketed across the city. Discussions to demolish The Campanile in the 1980s came to nothing when the local historical board moved to block the sale. The Campanile—almost a charming relic by 1985—instead became a historically designated landmark. Rents went up as new tenants moved in and a massive reconstruction of the lobby and underground parking garage was completed. In its sixth decade of service The Campanile was a local landmark and the property deed was changed to reflect new ownership.

Jane and I arrived in the driveway and were met by a doorman who gave us—or more likely just Jane—a sweeping glance. I was trying to look like a business tycoon and Jane was succeeding in looking like a punk rock singer. We looked up silently at the tall building with its bay windows, stone arches and gleaming windows.

It was ours.

Ardie had already arrived and was sitting in the lobby reading the morning newspaper. A determined young woman from Chartwell, Bidmore & Cope represented Miss Cousins. Together we were the new owners of one of the city’s most prestigious and recognized addresses: The Campanile was my new address.

I held the door open for Jane as we walked into the dim lobby to be greeted by Ardie, the doorman, the superintendent and a small team consisting of a cleaner, a maintenance man and a gardener. I looked around while my eyes adjusted to the dim interior lighting; the solid walls and doors masked any sound from the street. The elevator vestibule was to the right; a small lobby with a seating area and a fireplace completed the public space. In the winter a fire would burn all day to add both warmth and light to the space. The tone was what you would expect in a tasteful old hotel. The superintendent's apartment was on the lobby level, with a small office for any managment requirements.

I looked around and realized I was at home.

Chartwell, Bidmore & Cope

If you have never been to a top-flight law firm you really should find an excuse to visit one. One of the most prestigious and esteemed firms in the city is Chartwell, Bidmore & Cope.

Long a bastion of legal thinking, Chartwell, Bidmore & Cope enjoyed an enviable reputation in their field, and their practice was housed across five full floors of an office tower downtown. Our small assemblage (Miss Cousins, Jane, and me) were met by Ardie Beebe and The Late Secretary's chunky niece.

I was more curious than nervous; Jane had suggested that "$5000 might fall your way this afternoon" so that was interesting news.

Chunky Niece was quiet and stayed close to Miss Cousins. The lobby of Chartwell, Bidmore & Cope resembled the entrance hall to a fine stone building. A sweeping staircase lead up or down, and a wall of windows presented the city below as a view. The atmosphere was one of refinement and class, and designed to make visitors forget that they were 37 storeys up in the air.

Mr Andrew Cope Jr (who looked about 70) personally came out to greet Miss Cousins, holding her hand for a moment and exchanging some pleasantries. Chartwell, Bidmore & Cope was old fashioned, and Miss Adelaide Cousins (and her fortune) was a dear old client.

Reading a will is a passive affair and not at all like in the movies. We weren't wearing black (except for Jane, who always did) but Miss C was wearing charcoal. Hell, it was autumn! Everyone was starting to drag out the dark colours.

The great bulk of The Secretary's money--from bank accounts, insurance and other instruments--was given to her Chunky Niece and a large donation to her church. Well, that explained the warm eulogy from her minister!

Miss Cousins was left all the artwork that The Secretary had collected, with a few exceptions here and there. Most of it was actually works from Miss Cousins, so it was a case of some items returning home.

Jane and I were selected for special treatment. Jane just smiled benignly as a managing parnter of Chartwell, Bidmore & Cope informed us that the apartment building owned by The Secretary was to be given to Jane, me, Ardie and Miss Cousins.

Miss Cousins smiled, Jane smiled, Ardie grinned and I was stunned.

It was not an equal ownership; it was more of a trust and the controlling share was owned by Miss Cousins.

I had a funny feeling in my stomach; a cross between nerves and worry. An apartment building?

Coffee was served; Mr Andrew Cope mentioned that "any issues related to the Will and transfer of the property could be easily handled by Chartwell, Bidmore & Cope" prompting me to worry about how much it would all cost.

Ardie seemed cool and collected. He stood to leave and mentioned to Miss Cousin that they had a supper date over the weekend; waved a farewell to Jane and me, and thanked Mr Cope--and his minions who entered and left the boardroom silently--for such excellent care.

He left with a hearty goodbye, and suggested that Jane and I join him for lunch one day soon.

"After all, we're all going to be living under the same roof."

Driving back to the office we were a silent trio until Miss Cousins said that "all of this was because Ardie--the fool--lost all his money. You two should remember that; money is a great responsibility."

Jane sent me an instant message at the office inviting me home for supper. We would take a drive beforehand to look at our building; Jane had some details to share with me.

Later she walked past and suggested that "your days in a basement apartment are coming to an end, Sweetie" and that was that.

The rest of the afternoon was uneventful.

Promoted. To Glory.

I know I’ve been away. Mea culpa.

There has been a death in the family. That is what Miss Cousins told me when she called me at home. The Secretary died as quietly as she lived. She uncharacteristically missed an appointment on Saturday afternoon and her telephone rang unanswered. Simple things, really, and to most people no warning bells would ring.


Miss Cousins called Lourdes—who had a key—and Lourdes and her husband went to check. They found her reclining on a sofa with a book in her lap. She had died of a stroke the night before. Lourdes called 911, which is what you do evidently, and her husband wept. The Secretary had been a longtime employer and friend. (Yes, and friend.)


I was going to miss her, I realized, for her remarkable ability to be a cipher while looking after so many people and details. She knew every detail there was to know about Miss Cousins, and she ran the office with a Teutonic efficiency that she really did make look effortless.


Miss Cousins looked after the funeral with brisk sensitivity to detail and decorum. The Secretary had attended the Unitarian Church sporadically and the office immediately sprung into action with arrangements. Calls were placed, decisions were reached and we banded together—Miss Cousins, Jane, and me—like an odd little family.


We made arrangements for flowers and food, of course, but also the details of gathering friends (no family, really, except a few nieces and maybe 1 nephew) and looking after her personal affairs. Ardie Beebe sent an enormous arrangement to the office, and another to Miss Cousins at home, plus another to Jane. I didn’t get a personal delivery but I did put the large spray he sent to the office near my desk.


In the absence of our Major Domo we were a bit rudderless. Jane asked me to “look after things at the office for a few days” and it all sounded very temporary. The Secretary was not exactly a citizen of the Great Wired World. Her notebooks and calendars were precise and clear. Appointments, events, reminders—anything to do with Miss Cousins’ professional life, personal needs or her office—were as easy to follow as a map.


The funeral itself was a relatively modest affair. There were some lovely words spoken—a heavy-set niece spoke movingly about her late “Aunty”—and the minister spoke of her “generous soul” as well as her “selfless approach to life” and I thought they were odd comments. I only found at later that the church had been left money. A gift that touched many, as it turned out.


The wake was a boozy affair held by Miss Cousins. The apartment was packed with people, caterers, floral arrangements, food, drink, and a steady stream of guests in and out. Ardie and his sister Beebe Grade were there (I admit it; I stared at her for a while and it was like looking at a famous person) as well as numerous people from the professional guilds. Lourdes sat with Miss Cousins the entire time, and they seemed to fare better together.


It was around 3AM when Ardie finally stood up and stretched and said it was time to call it a night. Besides, he said, we had business to look after first thing tomorrow.


The Secretary, you see, had left Jane and me “a little something” and legal matters can’t be postponed. We were expected downtown at 2pm to learn what secrets were contained in a will, written only 7 days before by The Secretary.


Where there is a Will, there is a War.

Morning Call

There were a few bright spots to my new part-time job. The money wasn’t exactly a fortune but it was solid cash for the effort expended, the atmosphere was fun—and how!—and it sure beat waiting tables. Depending on her schedule in the morning I might hike over to Miss Cousins’ apartment and drive her to work. This would be determined the night before and announced by a message from The Secretary.

Driving downtown with the boss saved me both subway tokens and the issue of searching out breakfast in the morning. Miss Cousins was never quite ready when I arrived and invariably I would be offered a cup of coffee and a glass of juice. If it looked like she was going to be very late I could expect her housekeeper to up the ante and toss in some raisin toast, or maybe a bagel with cream cheese.

I should make something clear about her; she did drive on occasion. She managed to ferry herself back and forth to cottage country each weekend; she kept a cottage about two hours outside of the city and tried to visit often in the summer. She rarely drove if there was someone handy to do it for her and she would hand the keys over in an unspoken invitation to get behind the wheel. She used her time in the car with me to make telephone calls, attacking a list of messages written on pink “While You Were Out” notes.

Miss Cousins lived in midtown, not far from my faux-charming basement digs located just north of St. Clair on Bathurst Street. It wasn’t exactly a dump, but I had been promising myself that I would find a new apartment as soon as school was over. The problem was that my post-secondary education was a fluid affair; graduation had been postponed twice already and I was still living like a mole.

Miss Cousins had hired Ardie Beebe to “do up” her place when she moved in 25 years earlier. It could have been updated a bit, but the good bones of the building coupled with Ardie’s deft touch had created a perfect stage for her. The building—an early condominium called The Fairholme—offered residents a good address, door staff, valet parking and an understated residence that whispered rather than shouted.

Her apartment—half of a floor overlooking the city—had direct elevator access and a back door leading to a service staircase. Exiting the elevator guests stepped into a long gallery that ran the length of the apartment and featured a veritable treasure trove of her artwork. Large works filled one wall and were all signed Adelaide Cousins. The floor throughout was a luxurious marble checkerboard of black and white.

I wasn’t offered a tour or anything like that, but I did visit the kitchen (eat-in and with a window) and the living room. A dining room, den, two bedrooms and four bathrooms completed the layout. There was an unused maid’s room—Lourdes lived out—and another bathroom off of the kitchen.

I am not a math genius by any means (talk to Jane for that) but I could estimate that my entire apartment would fit inside her kitchen.

It goes without saying that I coveted the damn place from the first moment I stepped out of the silent elevator adorned with a Persian carpet and wood paneling. My apartment was across the hall from the laundry room in my building; I felt like I had gone through some later-day Oliver Twist experience the first time I was asked up for a cup of coffee to wait for the boss.

Miss Cousins had a BMW sedan that she leased and she replaced her car every two years. (I was envious of that, too, if you must know.) She always ordered the same model, in the same colour scheme, without visiting the dealership. This was a morsel that Jane passed on; she paid the bills, remember?

So what did I actually do all day? I wondered when you would ask that.

I was kept pretty busy, actually. The office was a busy place and there was always something going on. I increased my stature somewhat when I demonstrated my prowess with computers—specifically of the laptop variety—and subsequently was given more than mere errands to look after. It just sort of happened that I ended up spending more time with Miss Cousins and she did seem to like me.

Most of the time I proofed documents or did other office-cum-administrivia tasks. No one got near the books except Jane but I did sometimes deputize for The Secretary. Her job description was more obscure than mine. She was not a secretary in the conventional sense; chiefly because I now looked after all of the correspondence and mail. The Secretary had worked for Miss Cousins for almost 30 years and was clearly indispensable. She looked after all of the details of Miss Cousins’ life including the catalogue of work that made up her artistic output. Other duties might include attending a business meeting on the boss’ behalf, or dealing with tenants in the building where the office is located.

Did I forget to mention that? Our office was located in a building downtown that Miss Cousins owned in partnership with “some friends.” She had done okay for herself—Our Adelaide—and as soon as suitable space became available in the building she had begun to plan for the move.

Jane was out for the rest of the week and but for that fact I would not have been at the bank making a deposit when Ardie strolled through the front door. He spotted me right away and waved a hello, raising his eyebrows in recognition.

I wondered if he would remember my name.

What's in a name?

Both Ardie Beebe and his sister—Beebe Grade—were occasionally mentioned in the press. Ardie, of course, valued a certain amount of publicity to support his interior design firm that was active in Toronto, Palm Beach and Muskoka. On other occasions a country home in France or Tuscany—as interpreted by the master—would warrant a breathless mention in a magazine devoted to showcasing exactly how the rich live. Or at least how they decorate.

Beebe’s name almost never appeared in print in Canada. Her family newspaper never reported on her activities unless it was absolutely impossible to avoid such a reference. It would not be possible, for example, to refrain from reporting that Mr and Mrs Grade had entertained a visiting dignitary, or that Mrs Grade had attended a luncheon on behalf of a hospital or other worthy cause. In the main, however, Beebe did not attend such luncheons. The family foundation—The Ardwold and Martha Beebe Foundation—looked after all of the philanthropic activities of the family. Charitable efforts were conducted discreetly and were not intended to garner a spot in the limelight; that would be déclassé.

Managing the media was simple if you owned the newspaper that your husband published. Any editor or reporter reckless enough to suggest an article featuring a member of the Beebe family would be corrected. Anyone foolish enough to publish a feature in a competitive newspaper or magazine would find his or her employment at The Canadian Record terminated. Freelance journalists would be blacklisted at the paper.

The media blackout was not absolute. Beebe and Ardie both appeared in the society columns in Palm Beach from time to time, but these publications were not read at home so there was no fear of creating a sensation in the media. Even these references were restricted to events they hosted: members of the Beebe family did not attach their name to events outside of their own dynastic purview.

The habit of living a private life was an old one. During the early decades of the 20th century it was the custom for fine old Canadian families of dignified stature to avoid having their names and activities appear in the popular newspapers and magazines of the day. For the ladies and gentlemen of the Beebe clan this meant that there were only three acceptable occasions where a family member should be mentioned in the newspaper: Birth, marriage and death.

Notable achievements of a public nature or those rewarding civic contributions were exceptions where it would not be right to deny the public the satisfaction of knowing that a Beebe had received the Order of Canada, for example, or had accepted an ambassadorship. Even relatively workaday business achievements—becoming chancellor of a university or running for public office—would be acceptable, although members of the Beebe family did not run for office. They influenced politics and politicians with money, connections and their powerful newspaper and publishing holdings.

In the spring of 1965 Beebe appeared in a full-page story about the new Ford Mustang; a lovely photograph of the golden-haired girl and her hale brother accompanied the piece. The image—an innocent snapshot of youth and vitality—was taken in Muskoka where Beebe and Ardie drove in the sun with the top down. The title of the article was supposed to read

“Miss Beebe in a Convertible!!”

but was mistakenly printed as

“Beebe in a Convertible!!”

and the appellation had become fixed in the popular—and private—consciousness of the city and nation ever since.

There was something rather immediate about the woman in question and it seemed right to suddenly know her by her famous surname. Her marriage into the equally stratospheric Grade family had not diminished her luminosity and she would spend the rest of her life as Beebe Grade.

Prior to the publication of this article she was not known by any particular name. Her immediate family called her Sis and her close girlfriends called her Vessy, short for her given name of Vesta.

The power of the media to create reality is very strong. Just ask Beebe Grade, formerly known as Vesta.

The truth was that Ardie rather enjoyed the odd bit of publicity. It was all rather fun to read about yourself in the newspaper and having your routine activities—socializing, designing, entertaining—presented as reportage. He had a large file of clippings of his press mentions, each carefully filed away and saved for posterity.

In the late 1960s Ardie was entangled in a messy divorce case replete with a lurid sex scandal and the name Ardwold Beebe Junior became fodder for competitive newspapers across Canada. Any attempts to shut the story down were ended when the aggrieved wife announced in open court that her husband’s affections had been alienated because of his sexual affair with Ardie Beebe. Not to be outdone, the wounded husband then announced—again in open court to a shocked audience—that his wife had also been “carrying on” with Ardie Beebe, and the nature of their relationship had precious little to do with interior décor.

The scandal that followed unleashed a maelstrom of gossip and was heady enough to see Ardie banished to Palm Beach for 18 months where his rehabilitation could take place away from the rest of the Beebe clan.

It didn’t work.

Luxuriating in his newfound fame as a roué, Ardie went out to supper nightly on his reputation as a swinger and thoroughly enjoyed his exile. Far from enduring a grim purgatory he found himself a bona fide society darling and seduced his way through two seasons before being summoned home. He returned to Toronto in the spring of 1971—more of a sensation then when he was sent packing—and declined a position with the family firm. Uninterested in the newspaper except for the revenue it generated he opened an antique shop and hung out his shingle as a decorator.

Ardie never discussed the scandal but did refer to himself thus: “I'll have you know that I happen to be a tail of two cities.”

A press release from the offices of Miss Adelaide Cousins.

Ardwold Gate

1925

Toronto enjoyed a solid middle-class reputation of stability for decades. One of the kindest remarks about the city was that the best meals were served at home. Hardly a ringing endorsement for Toronto or the dining rooms of the fine hotels then serving the city.

A recession in the mid 1920s (largely eclipsed in the popular consciousness by the depression that followed it) created an attractive climate for property speculation—if you had money.

Ardwold George Beebe—founder, publisher and owner of The Canadian Record—suffered no shortage of cash and used the reduced property prices to purchase a handsome piece of property overlooking the city.

On this particular morning in the autumn of 1925 Mr and Mrs Ardwold Beebe were visiting the property with their chosen architect to mark the footprint of their proposed home. Mrs Beebe watched from the backseat of a Buick limousine while her husband pointed here and there to indicate where a wall, garden, window or wing would subsequently be erected.

The property was accessed from a lane off Spadina Road, north of the city’s famous folly, Casa Loma. Created in mock castle fashion, Casa Loma was already vacant—Sir Henry and Lady Pellat moved out in 1924, unable to pay their property taxes—and the well-heeled population of the city viewed Ardwold Beebe’s planned new home with a mixture of curiosity and speculation. Some wondered aloud if the proposed home would ever be built.

The house would be completed and the Beebe family would gaze downward on the city from their gracious family home for many years. Subsequent development near the home demanded that the laneway—now a city street—required a name.

The city fathers (there were no city mothers in those days) voted quickly to name the street after one of the city’s most illustrious citizens. The gates erected by Ardwold Beebe—the same stone gates designed to keep people out—still exist and frame the entry to the street today.

The street today is called Ardwold Gate.

Friday

After work on Friday I went to a beer hall with Jane for some wings and draft. We strolled up from the office and wound our way into Kensington Market, where Jane was something of an habitué, finally entering a dive that resembled a Legion Hall and settled ourselves at a table near the back.

Jane sported a mane of hair dyed black with streaks of purple and crimson. Her usual attire was black leggings, a short black skirt, black top and a black sweater to bring it all together. With her pale skin, black eye make-up and nail polish she was the most unlikely accountant in the city.

It goes without saying that I completely adored her, and fell under her quirky spell soon after we met. Jane ordered us a small order of wings with extra hot sauce and reminded me that we couldn’t linger, as she had to be home before 7.

Jane was the mother of a 5 year-old daughter—Bethany—and shared her home with a niece who was a student at the U of T. A free spirit with an eye for real estate, she lived in the Annex in a narrow townhouse north of Bloor Street. Her unofficial family included me, some neighbours, a few single-moms, and a smattering of musicians from her “other life” as a singer. Details about Bethany’s father were sketchy, but since Jane never mentioned a name I didn’t press for details. I figured that she would tell me one day, when the time was right.

Bethany spent each afternoon with Sra. Cabral, a neighbour who spoke fractured English and also presented in black from head to toe. “She asked me once if my husband was dead,” said Jane, “or had my mother or father died within the last year. She’s a happy widow, you know, so we’re not that different. We both wear widow’s weeds and we’re both faking it.”

I passed on an invitation to supper—but made sure to get a rain check—and then hiked home using a combination of streetcar and subway.

I hated having nothing to do on a Friday night. I spent the rest of the evening surfing the net, and touring the television channels.

Thus endeth the lesson.

Baskets

A small drama played out each morning surrounding who would be responsible for delivering a pot of coffee to Miss Cousins. Custom dictated that The Secretary—who had started to aim an infrequent smile in my direction—owned the privilege of coffee delivery. My arrival created a new social order, however, and it was just too appealing to refrain from having the only male in the office serve coffee. I didn’t care, really, because I had already swallowed my pride and assumed duties for walking the dogs. Oh, I also took them out to piss. {Are you jealous of my glamorous job yet?}

On this particular morning there was a buzz of activity in the office. Miss Cousins had attended a cocktail party the night before at the home of a bigwig property developer and his socially aware wife (aware, that is, that she was not considered socially desirable) but had left early. Ardie Beebe had dropped by to say hello and discuss the event.

“The house looks perfect, with his fingerprints all over it,” said Miss Cousins, motioning with her cig toward the sofa where Ardie lay stretched and laughing. “I didn’t see the refrigerator, obviously,” she said as an aside to The Secretary, “but I can already see the baskets. Part of his shtick is to fill the ‘fridge with baskets; one for condiments; one for deli; one for cocktail nibbles. They love him—all these women—they’ll do anything he says!” Adelaide gave her “Ha!” of a laugh and exhaled dragon plumes of thick, pungent smoke from her nostrils while her audience (including me, balancing a coffee tray) each laughed according to rank. I was guilty of no more than a kind chuckle while Ardie roared and called Miss Cousins a bitch.

“You missed good fun, Adelaide,” said Ardie, repositioning an ashtray on the credenza behind her desk. The office and all of its tasteful décor traced their provenance to Ardie, his discerning eye, and his dangerous charm. Quiet references to “the good life” were his hallmarks. No one item overshadowed another, and his taste—quiet, elegant and expensive—referred to a pedigree of understated class. His grace notes were intelligence—nothing looked more important that Miss Cousins’ own artworks—and an uncanny ability to determine exactly how much money a client would spend before balking at, say, an occasional chair that cost $7,000.00.

“Everyone in town showed up right after you left and Esther achieved a certain minor nirvana; I told her that 5 until 7 is the thing to do. Who knows,” smiled Ardie, “Esther just might take the city by storm.”

Nobody laughed at this last remark. Ardie knew these things.

The second-hand smoke choking the air was heavy—honestly, between Miss Cousins, Ardie Beebe and The Secretary they constituted a health threat in one room—and only barely relieved when Miss Cousins leaned over to slide a window open. The telltale aroma was so obvious that ignoring it was impossible. I later spied The Secretary with a bottle of perfume in her hand, spritzing the office with a delicate mist of floral and citrus.

The essence of a certain perfume was something I would ultimately come to always associate with Miss Cousins. Years later I would search her apartment until I finally located a large bottle of scent, uncapped and left discreetly behind a cabinet. A pretty subterfuge to freshen the air, but all that would be much later. For today the sun was shining in a blue sky with a horizon as open as a heart worn on your sleeve. There was no threat of darkness or scandal, only the promise of good times ahead.

“Stay for lunch, Ardie?” asked Miss Cousins, blowing a long stream of smoke toward the ceiling. The ashtray on her desk—shamelessly full—was part of a set. There was another next to Ardie, who took long drags on cigarettes that were replaced from a silver case. He was affected—sure—but he could pull it off. I watched him stir his coffee and determined then and there to emulate some of his smooth mannerisms.

There was a certain charm to this particular twosome; she was taut like a spring where Ardie was laidback and cool like jazz. He was already in his 50s, but it wasn’t hard to see where Ardie had been a looker. He still was, really, with his fine head of silver hair, his too deep tan from a summer at the lake, and his toned body that showed discipline to exercise. His voice was deep but otherwise unremarkable, although his vocabulary was impressive. Big five-dollar words that would make other people sound stuffy sounded perfectly normal coming from Ardie. He was witty—so was Miss Cousins—and they clearly enjoyed verbally sparring with one another; they teased one another, but without malice or desire to wound.

He really hasn’t missed a trick, I thought, as he tapped another cigarette on the case before putting it in his mouth. He reached for the lighter—Miss Cousins had a drawer full of cheap disposable lighters promoting an astonishing array of beer brands, casinos, Chinese restaurants, and trucks—and lit his latest torch while still speaking. With a cigarette glowing from the corner of his mouth he observed me from his perch in front of the desk. His eyes were clear and his gaze was a bit unsettling; why did everyone in this office make me so damn nervous? Ardie stared for a few moments and then turned to say to the boss that he was “only staying for lunch if he could pour the wine” and I was sent trotting up the street to buy four bottles of wine, two crisp fifty-dollar bills from Ardie’s wallet tucked in my front pocket.

Lunch was subsequently delivered (I was fetching wine, remember?) from an Italian restaurant a few blocks down from the office. Individual lunch orders were not taken as lunch was “by invitation” and Miss Cousins was our hostess; good guests ate what was put in front of them. Today I started with a crisp salad followed by a veal limone that was, well, lemony, and two glasses of a solid red wine purchased by me and requested by Ardie. We ate in the boardroom, with dishes, cutlery and glassware (how do you tell if something is real crystal?) from the adjacent kitchen.

Miss Cousins took the head of the table, indicating that Ardie should sit at the other end. I sat across from Jane, who kept Ardie in stitches talking about her recent long weekend in Montreal. Jane looked after Ardie’s books, on permanent retainer, and Ardie kept trying to get her to talk about “her boyfriends” in la belle province.

“You won’t get anything out of her, Ardie, she’s the soul of discretion” said Miss Cousins, with mock solemnity. “She’ll take her secrets to the grave, along with everyone’s dirty financial laundry.”

“Thank God or somebody for that!” said Ardie. “Because I damn well don’t want to have to tangle with Beebe!”

Howls of laughter greeted this comment while I sat in silence, not party to the in-joke.

“Oh, Ardie—sometimes you are just too much. You really are,” said Jane, “what am I going to do with you? Tell me that.”

Reported today from the Studio of Miss Adelaide Cousins.

Ardie Beebe

Harry Steinberg found himself sitting one evening on the terrace of his recently decorated midtown Toronto mansion listening to Essie—pardon me, Esther as she now liked to be called—talk about cinema and film with that feygele decorator, Ardie Beebe. The film festival had launched and le tout Toronto was buzzing with breathless stories about what celebrity had lunch at what cafe. Harry couldn't have cared less; watching tv at home was far more comfortable than shlepping to some over-priced cinema to eat stale popcorn.

Essie sat curled at the foot of his chaise lounge, one leg underneath her, laughing at something Ardie said. She had lost weight recently, he noticed, and her hair-do had changed. Lighter, shorter, and with a few highlights that made her look years younger. Harry smiled contentedly to himself, and again noted how Essie's diet had not caused her to lose too much heft "up top."

Ardie had introduced Essie to the luxury of a cocktail, and she had since become enamored of vodka and tonic water, with lots of lime wedges. Supper was now always preceeded by drinks a deux, and they were entertaining guests a few times a week. Her new slim figure required a new slim wardrobe and Essie bubbled with energy as she showed off her gams in well-tailored capri pants, chic sandals and a perfect pedicure.

Harry shouted and Essie cried when the bill for the decoration exceeded a quarter of a million dollars, but he did have to admit that Essie had never been happier. Only last week she had climbed into bed after her morning shower and surprised him with sponataneous oral sex and called him “Firecracker” as he left for the office.

Harry suspected Ardie was behind Essie’s new oral skills, so he couldn’t be all bad. Besides, sipping a gin martini and having a few laughs wasn’t exactly a hardship, he reasoned. Ardie’s favourite tipple was vodka on ice, but tonight he was drinking red wine—another new interest of Essie’s—and charming the guests. Essie bounced up to check on the “kitchen” and promised to tell everyone about her new Pilates class when she returned.

Life, Harry Steinberg decided, was okay. Besides, a man's home really was his castle.

Ardie was accompanied by his sister, Beebe Grade, who was something of an institution in the city. Married to the publisher of a national newspaper, Mrs Grade--called Beebe as an homage to her own illustrious parentage--was a social lioness who appeared unwilling to play her part. With her brittle tone and tight smile she made Harry somewhat nervous. You never could tell what these waspy women were thinking, he thought, while watching Beebe finish her drink with obvious relish.

"Can I get you another?" sang Essie, as she darted into the house.

Beebe responded by turning her rictus of a smile toward Mrs Harry Steinberg--all teeth and bright shining eyes, with red lipstick just starting to bleed into her lips--and replied that she would enjoy this one being "freshened up" but she certainly did not want another drink.

From that moment forward Essie would never again offer anyone more of anything.

Adelaide Cousins had arrived and left early; she had knocked back three drinks and twice as many cigarettes--using a potted plant as an ashtray--and Harry observed that goys really did drink a lot. Even the women.

Even the women.

Mute Commute.

Flushed from the natural high of landing my new job I marched home by foot and took a pass on the subway. The city was experiencing a series of sunny days and cool temperatures and the good citizens were undecided about what clothing was suitable for the post-Labour Day (but still warm summer weather) season that had settled in. The rabble was attired in a mix of summer clothes mixed with dark fall items. I was somewhere in between, with a fall sports jacket and a summer shirt. To hell with the sartorial conseuqences: I had a job!

The Secretary arrived first every morning and I never did manage to beat her to the time clock. A rumour subsequently circulated among les flunkies that she (or is that She?) slept on a mat at the office. It was unkind, but her natural reserve was hard to breach. Uncertain as to her private life, she would remain forever a distant figure to most of the gang who toiled for Miss Cousins. Crisp, immaculate attire and a certain aloof nature were the props she relied on. I decided to like her, for no specific reason, knowing that we would be working in close proximity.

I arrived with a Starbucks in hand, a potent symbol of my new high office, and smiled a warm greeting.

Miss Cousins enjoyed the habit of arriving at her own office sometime after the morning traffic had abated. Her hours were erratic, unplanned, and always built around a "calendar" that was jealously guarded by The Secretary.

My first tasks were mundane. Deliver this, pick up that, take the car for a wash and assume responsibility for lunch orders. Despite the decidedly low-end nature of my duties I approached them with a certain gravitas.

I wasn't merely delivering an envelope; I was personally handing over documents from Miss Adelaide Cousins. Lunch became a pageant of thoughtfulness with extra napkins, plastic forks, or bottles of water. When I arrived at a law office to collect some papers I made sure to handle the envelope as if I was weighing the contents.

It worked once, but it was a clumsy move that failed to impress the harried receptionist who tipped me a buck. (The bitch.)

What did I enjoy most about work at "the office?"

The afternoon cocktail hour was a popular institution, which occured right after the markets closed. Long a favoured part of Her afternoon, Miss Cousins was happy to have a body nearby capable of driving her home. This one task--Driving Miss Cousins--separated me from the rest of the crew who did not enjoy (if that is the word) such close access to AC. I drove home with the careful attention of a new driver, in silence.

Unfortunately my status as Official Driver meant I was restricted in what I could imbibe at the cocktail party. I endeared myself--to everyone--when I announced that I could make a mean pitcher of Manhattans. Jane (who did billing three days a week) had two and took a cab home. I could now add "Cocktail Shaker Jockey" to my growing list of duties.

Work, it turns out, is a matter of style. Miss Cousins had it in abundance.

Being the true account of my life with Miss Adelaide Cousins.

Life goes 9 to 5 from 10 until 6

Life at the new office coincided with some changes to the roster of regulars who make up Miss Cousins' life. Back to my usual chores of school, study, art and--ugh--work I was happy to receive a call from The Secretary who informed me that "Miss Cousins wants to see you Tuesday at 10AM VERY SHARP."

The regular shlepper had left town and Miss Cousins was in dire need of some "additional help" on a laissez-faire basis.

I actually skipped a class to attend and truly fretted over what to wear. What would work best? My options were limited to either looking like an artist (not hard) or looking like a student who needed a job (also not hard). I opted for artist and hoped for the best.

I showed up--before 10--and waited quietly while The Secretary read from the stack of newspapers on her desk. She skimmed with precision, silently clipping and circling certain items. From time to time she would exclaim "Ridiculous!" or cluck disapproval over some snippet she had read.

At precisely 10Am the door opened and Miss Cousins walked in. She gave me a welcoming glance of hello and indicated with her eyes that I should follow her.

Tagging along behind AC and The Secretary (who had lost weight; I noticed) I accepted a number of items to carry. Newspapers, magazines, some file folders, a stack of mail and a large satchel. Adelaide issued orders in her signature voice: deep, husky, unmistakable and well-seasoned from smoke and drink.

The new digs were larger, and it was obvious that Miss Cousins had spent some coin on the decor. Her own office had a grouping of low-slung leather chairs surrounding a glass cocktail table. Near the desk four chairs for visitors were arranged in a semi-circle (perfect for her disciples) and I observed--quickly--that these chairs were lower than her own. Supplicants visiting Miss Adelaide Cousins would all look up. All of the art on display was good, and not all of it bore the signature "Adelaide Cousins." The view encompassed a large swath of the city and there was a door on each side wall. The door to the main lobby was always left slightly ajar, exposing the hive of activity outside her private office. The overall effect was one of refined good taste, punched with bright lights from art and furniture.

In silence a contract was placed in front of me. I would have signed any job offer but spent a few moments looking over the "terms" to indicate that I was a man with options. Adelaide sat down behind the desk and rummaged for a lighter. (Smoking laws and regulations be damned; Adelaide always had a burn on the go.)

The job could not have been more loosely defined. I could not tell if I was being recruited to be a personal assistant, a Guy Friday, or a flunky with good table manners.

"I need an assistant," exhaled Miss Cousins. "You need a job."

Eight words sealed my fate. Assistant to Adelaide Cousins, or assistant to The (dreaded) Secretary?

"You'll work directly for me, and I have enough to keep you busy. I can work around your schedule." Adelaide looked at me over her sunglasses, tinted for brightness but capable of hiding the fine lines that now surrounded her eyes and--to be honest--were no longer merely fine.

The first order of the day was my wardrobe, which was deemed "lovely" and The Secretary advanced me a cheque and gave me a business card for a men's clothing store that was way out of my snack-bracket.

How do you get a discount from a top clothier when you can't afford a thing? You accept a job with the store-owner's landlord.

Reported today from the office of (Miss) Adelaide Cousins.